


Dance

by deleerium



Category: Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-08-17
Updated: 2007-08-17
Packaged: 2017-12-27 13:04:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/979252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deleerium/pseuds/deleerium
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Apparently I'm incapable of writing crackfic for these two, so here's brilliant Broadway dancer Orlando with snarky, cursing, choreographer Lij.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dance

Orlando isn't the worst dancer in New York. Nor is he the most talented. But he is the best. Which is why he's slogging through a New York rain before the sun is even up - for a 7:00 am call. 

At 6:30 am, Times Square is as close to silent as it gets. The tourists are all sleeping off their hangovers and the suits are perusing their papers over bagels and Starbucks on the Upper East Side. The enormous trash piles make shiny black obstacles as Orlando navigates the short walk through streetlights and neon, finally turning down the dark end of 42nd street. 

He tucks his chin into his scarf and hikes up his bag, hunching his shoulders against the November wind. The show's two weeks from opening night, with a planned sixteen week run. Not too modern. Not to stodgy. But make or break week is coming up, and if they don't pack those same, hungover tourists into those worn red velvet seats every night, the backers will pull the plug. 

But that's not why Orlando's early. He's early because he likes it. The engorged pigeons sleeping it off on the dirty sidewalk. The grimy brick of the old theater as he squeezes down the two-foot alley to the back of the building. The worn, metal steps leading to the stage door. The secret knock - used by millions of performers for hundreds of years. 

Shave and a hair-cut. Two bits. 

He loves the way the door always opens when he knocks. The intense scrutiny of Oliver, the ancient doorman, who's known him since...forever, but examines him thoroughly, every morning. Just like this. “Hey, Oliver.” 

A long squinting look. And finally, the nod. “Mornin'.” 

Orlando grins and pushes past him, craving that first musty breath of black paint, velvet and polished wood. “I love that,” he murmurs, “every day.” When he's hit by a verbal whirlwind. 

“You'll love my foot in your narrow ass if you don't get dressed, warmed up and on stage, stat.” 

Unsurprised by the lecture, Orlando murmurs, “Sure thing,” over his shoulder, watching their choreographer's mad dash across the stage. Noticing, not for the first time, the red gleam in the spiky ruff of Elijah's hair as he yells at the lighting technician, the stage manager and some poor prop girl without drawing breath. 

Orlando grins and drops his bag in his favorite spot - stage right, in the shadow of the spiral stairs. He strips quickly down to black leggings, rummaging in his bag for a tank top and loose fitting pants. Ankle warmers are next, and then shoes. His costume has more volume, but after five weeks of rehearsal with Elijah, he's learned that their choreographer wants to see them move. Not the costumes. Making his way to center stage, he ties a blue bandanna around his long hair, pushing it well back and out of the way. 

There's a shuffle at the stage door. And more yelling. Another gleam of reddish hair. Orlando stands tall and lifts one leg up. High. Ankle near his cheek. He catches a glimpse of more bodies on stage as he lowers his foot. Familiar faces appear and he and smiles by way of greeting as he lifts the other. Confirming he's still loose, despite the walk in the cold, he starts marking the ending routine in his head. He bends at the waist and wraps his arms around his knees. 

“Where in the fuck are my fucking dancers?” Elijah's shout bounces off the back row of the theater. 

No one answers, but a half-dozen bodies fly out of the wings and into place on stage. Orlando straightens and rolls his head gently back and forth, stifling his grin. 

“Seven A.M. means your asses are here, warmed up, dressed,” Elijah pounces hard on the last word as a girl runs on stage, still pulling on her shirt, “and fucking ready to dance at 6:45.” There's a rude grumble from the back row. Elijah's gaze narrows and his voice drops dangerously. “Six hundred and eleven people auditioned for your twenty spots. I can always call number twenty one.” 

Dead silence is the only response. 

“Let's begin.” Elijah moves to the edge of the apron. Every body on stage is poised to fly, waiting instruction. “Street fight. From the top.” Dancers scatter, leaving a core of eight men moving silently into place. “Music!” 

Silence again. 

Elijah's face flushes and he whirls to face the sound booth. “Where's my fucking musi...” The track cues up and he turns to center stage. “On three.” 

This time Orlando does grin, arms up, head high. Bursting into motion on three. 

+

Two hours later, there's not an inch of Orlando's body that isn't wet or pain free. But he doesn't say a word. Doesn't sigh. Doesn't slack on every other run-through for a rest. Doesn't share exasperated looks with his fellow dancers. 

He just. Works. 

Hits his marks, every time. Reaches for the ceiling with every jump. Puts his partner another inch higher with every lift. Melts through the floor each time his cheek and chest roll up against it. And he listens. Listens to each of Elijah's sharply worded corrections. Listens to the guts of the music. Listens to the pounding of flesh against floor and flesh. 

“Enough.” Elijah throws down his notebook and pen and picks up a towel, wiping the sweat from his forehead. “Take ten.” 

Orlando stays where he ends up - face down in the middle of a roll. Even this close, the floor smells good. He breathes deeply, letting his blood slow down on its own. 

“Get up and cool down.” Elijah's voice manifests above Orlando. “We can't afford an injury this close to opening night.” His tone is quiet. Intimate. 

Orlando rolls to his back, the loose-limbed, decadent sprawl more natural than breathing. He stares up at Elijah, his smile deep despite the way his body is screaming. “Okay.” 

Elijah's still staring down at him, silent for once. 

Orlando notices, not for the first time, the full, perfect curve of Elijah's lips. Which is why it takes a moment for Elijah's hand to register. The one he's holding out to him. Offering. 

Carefully, Orlando takes it. Firm, warm, dry. Strong, as Elijah pulls him up. The balance and strength don't surprise Orlando, testing Elijah's hold for one moment longer than polite. But Elijah's unspoken agreement does. Letting Orlando lead, hands still clasped tight. And not the slightest objection when Orlando's free hand moves to Elijah's waist. 

Elijah leans. Orlando lifts - just a few inches from the floor. And they fit. Elijah light and strong enough to hold position. Orlando balanced and strong enough to free him from the earth. 

Orlando releases him abruptly and steps back. 

Elijah's smile flashes, bemused, and then he's gone. 

Orlando resists the sudden urge to thump back to the safety of twenty seconds ago, sprawled flat out on stage. Before he discovered that their choreographer was just as interested in him. And could dance. 

\+ 

“Did you all fucking forget you have fucking feet?” Elijah's shout bounces off the back row of the upper balcony. 

It's two weeks later and dress rehearsal is a fucking disaster. Orlando blows sweat out of his eyes and moves back into position for the final act, forcing his arms up over his head, despite the agony. His costume sticks to him, twisted at the shoulders and waist. He wonders vaguely if the costume mistress has time to actually launder everything in the next - he counts - twenty hours. And why he can't feel his left knee. 

“Stop, just fucking stop.” Elijah throws his notebook off the stage and turns his back on the dancers, his long sleeved shirt soaked as if he's been dancing himself. 

They lower their arms and legs, too tired to groan as they wait. 

Elijah turns around, his expression calm, his voice quiet. “Every one of you is a professional. Every one of you knows these routines forwards and backwards. Opening night will be perfect.” He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, his smile not quite reaching his eyes. “Go home and get some sleep.” 

Most of the dancers stare at him in shock. 

“Get the fuck off my stage, people!” 

They scatter, some more quickly than others. Orlando moves stage right, still breathing hard as he stares down at his bag. He nudges it with his toe and wipes his forehead on his sleeve, cringing when he's attacked by one of the costumers. She strips him within minutes, tsking as she collects his costume and disappears. 

He moves stiffly, pulling on jeans and a thin sweater. Sighing, he leaves the rest of his stuff in a pile. There really is more room here. Props and lighting crew move back and forth across the stage, shutting down smoke machines, rolling away building fronts and hauling colorful backdrops up into the fly space. 

Orlando picks a spot well away from the action and begins his cool down. Carefully moving from one pose to the next, part yoga, part ballet, part jazz. Each movement designed to stretch his body in a particular direction, following a pattern of one muscle group to the next. 

It's ten minutes before he feels like he can move freely again. It's fifteen when he feels the prickle on the back of his neck. He rolls to his bare feet and stands, squinting across the darkened theater. All the dancers and most of the crew have left, only the glint of reddish hair stands out under the fake street light. Still lit, stage left. 

“Everything okay?” Elijah's voice is quiet. Intimate again. 

“Yeah.” Orlando matches the intimate tone. 

Elijah steps closer, out from under the light. “Left knee?” 

Orlando tilts his head, amazed. “Yeah. Fine. How did you...” 

“You rubbed it. Once. Act two, third run through,” Elijah says.

“I did?” Orlando stays where he is, unconsciously flexing his wrists. His gaze drops to Elijah's waist. The slender hips. 

“Yeah.” Elijah stops a few yards away. “And no, you shouldn't try a lift. Not after sixteen, seventeen hours of this.”

“You're not heavy. At all.” Orlando takes a long step forward, his palms itching. “Just one.” 

“No.” The choreographer is back in Elijah's voice. “No.” This one softer, dropping back to intimate. “Not tonight, Orlando.” 

Orlando meets Elijah's gaze and grins, despite his fatigue. “Not tonight,” he repeats, knowing that there will be another. 

“Go home and get some sleep.” Elijah disappears into the wings. 

“Sure thing,” Orlando murmurs, but it's a few long, quiet minutes on center stage before he obeys. 

It's not until he's squeezing back down the narrow alley, bag in tow that he stops. And laughs. And smiles a smile that stays on his face until he falls asleep. Their choreographer - their 'hey you, you there, girlie, people, you in the red, slackers, you in the pink' choreographer - called him by name. 

+

The music rises to a crescendo. Orlando reaches for the catwalk on his next leap, hearing only the heartbeat of the song, his breath, the thud of bodies hitting the floor. His partner is there, lifted and turned and Orlando holds on - levitating an entire human with one hand. They kiss in suspended animation and the music crashes into silence. 

A beat. 

The curtain falls. 

And the audience roars. 

He grins and runs into place for the bows. The sound is deafening, even from behind the curtain. They're a hit. More than. They're better than Cats. The curtains and house lights go up. The audience erupts into chaos and a thunderstorm of flowers falls to the stage. 

The performers bow deeply, alone, in pairs, in groups - the catcalls still coming through the second curtain. When the curtain goes down for the last time, pandemonium breaks out backstage. Shouts of cast party and press flow through the crowd as the dancers make their way quickly to the dressing rooms. 

+

It takes three weeks for the post-performance adrenaline in front of a sold-out house to feel normal. But Orlando's still smiling with the afterglow when he finishes his cool down, stage right. He's flat on the floor, fingers tapping a silent staccato against the bare patch of skin between the waistband of his soft jeans and black sweater. 

A door slams. The house lights disappear. And Orlando wonders briefly, not for the first time, if he'd just imagined the almost intimacy between them. He's only seen their shouting choreographer since that first night. Like the lights, the soft-spoken Elijah seems to have disappeared. 

A shadowed face appears above him, the street lamp glowing behind reddish hair. 

“It's late.” There's a smile in Elijah's quiet admonishment.

Orlando smiles back and takes the offered hand. Trusting the strength behind it this time. Asking more of it as his bare feet move slowly, questioningly around Elijah. Pulling him into the first turn of the last dance. 

Elijah accepts. And moves like they've been the ones dancing together all these long weeks. 

Orlando's surprise is brief and fades quickly as Elijah pushes back, demanding all of it. The fight, the struggle, the chase. Orlando gives and Elijah takes. There's no need for music, the rhythm is in their motions. Their bodies match, a surreal beauty to the proportions. The rush is sharper, higher than a performance. 

Elijah adds the first touch -- a sweep of his palm over Orlando's shoulder as he turns. Orlando breaks free of the strict structure of the choreography, Elijah's touch permission. He pulls Elijah flush against his thigh the next time their bodies meet. Elijah tugs the tangled mass of Orlando's hair, pulling their mouths within a breath before spinning away. 

The music rises to a crescendo on the silent stage, time marked by their breathing as Elijah leaps and Orlando catches him, holding him suspended, choreography long abandoned in favor of hands and bodies and heat. Orlando reels Elijah in slowly, arms banding around his thighs, holding Elijah high against his chest. Elijah's waist at Orlando's throat. 

Elijah combs starved fingers through Orlando's hair, lifting his face. 

Orlando gazes blurrily upwards, chest heaving from the dance, his voice tinged with pain. “Why? Why don't you dance?” 

Elijah shakes his head, his smile thin, his gaze deep. 

And Orlando instantly understands. And wonders how he could be so blind. Like a short-sighted pilot, or a six foot ballerina - there's not a producer in the world who would hire Elijah as a lead. 

Knowing there is nothing he can say, Orlando presses his mouth to the patch of skin exposed by Elijah's twisted shirt. Lips catching in the dip of his navel. Teeth scraping as he explores the curve of Elijah's hip. Biting gently as he feels firm heat nudging his throat. 

Elijah tugs on Orlando's hair, curling forward. “Down,” he whispers, “let me come down there.” 

With excruciating control, Orlando loosens his grip. Elijah slides down his body an inch. Orlando's mouth travels up the resulting patch of naked skin. Elijah falls another inch. And another, the radiant heat of him branding Orlando's chest. 

Orlando can feel Elijah's breath skittering over the top of his ear when Elijah's length scrapes over the waistband of Orlando's jeans. He turns and lifts his head, halting Elijah's descent as their mouths touch. They share a breath. Their lips meet and map one curve to the other. 

Elijah's elbow cradling the back of Orlando's neck. 

Orlando's palms flat against Elijah's cheeks. 

Elijah's tongue traces patterns against Orlando's and Orlando's knees give, folding his body to the floor. Bound once again to gravity, Elijah rocks forward and slides a foot into the space between Orlando's knees. Cupping the sides of his face. Mouths - dancing. 

+

"Orlando."

He ignores the soft whisper of his name, stretching their arms up over Elijah's head, fingers tangled and pressed against the floor. Orlando rocks forward, just there, perfect friction even through two layers of denim. He smiles when Elijah groans, explores the curve of Elijah's ear with his teeth. And does it again. 

Another groan, and an answering twist of narrow hips. “Orlando.” This sounds more familiar. Almost a growl. 

Orlando lifts his head, gaze dark and deceptively sleepy as he stares down at Elijah, pinned to the floor. “Yes, Elijah?”

Lips swollen, cheeks flushed, and one leg wrapped tight around Orlando's hips, Elijah still manages the annoying trick of raising one eyebrow. “We're center stage.” 

Orlando's grin is slow. Devouring. "Isn't that where we should be?" 

END


End file.
